


On Location

by mylittleredgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Closets, F/M, Off-World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/pseuds/mylittleredgirl
Summary: Because the rescue's going to take a while...





	On Location

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peanutbutterer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanutbutterer/gifts).

She is _not_ considering it.  
  
Sure, there are mitigating circumstances: for one, it’s been at least a week since she’s been alone with him, but since when is that something she _tracks_?  
  
For another: it’s possible they’re both a little bit dazed from the Supreme Ruler of Ochrajinalia’s failed attempt to poison them, but she only had a sip before she realized something was wrong, and it was hours ago. At least he was only trying to make them more pliable for his _outrageous_ proposal rather than kill them, but the last time somebody spiked her drink and then proposed an exchange of _procreational material_ was at least a decade and three hundred million light-years ago, so it caught her a little off guard.  
  
And, okay, the explosive way John reacted to another man coming on to her—or soliciting the genetic diversity of her foreign ova, whatever—made her instantly more aware of him in a very base, very primal way. She could actually smell whatever Alpha Male hormones were rolling off him, and damn if that didn’t blow right past her intergalactic diplomat mental discipline and turn her _on_.  
  
She can still smell him, but that’s probably because they’ve taken refuge from the regular Ochrajinalian patrols in what amounts to a closet, and they’ll be stuck here until they miss their check-in and Atlantis realizes there’s a problem. A _closet_, for God’s sake. She’s practically sitting in his lap, and she’s very aware that she kissed him for the first time a month ago because they were sharing a bottle of wine and he made her laugh and she was feeling flirty, and then he kissed her a week later because he said turnabout was fair play, and since then they’ve had four or five seriously ill-advised makeout sessions that haven’t gone anywhere because of—  
  
Reasons. Really important reasons. Fate-of-the-universe reasons. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, wondering if that sip of tainted wine three hours ago could really still be affecting her or if she was out of her mind to begin with.  
  
“Stop doing that,” John whispers at her.  
  
“Doing...?”  
  
She realizes she’s been nervously scratching at invisible dirt on her knee when he covers her hand with his. He only keeps it there long enough for her to notice how _hot_ his hand is before he yanks it back. “Sorry.”  
  
She can’t see more than his outline with only a thin sliver or light coming from the door, but that’s enough when she knows his shape as well as she does. The aliens took his weapons and he stripped off his tac vest before they sat down, so he looks almost exactly like he did in Atlantis when they took that walk a week ago down the East pier. She knows he’ll groan if she kisses him right at the spot where his jaw meets his neck and she wants to run her fingers over his 5 o’clock shadow—  
  
—and she’s _not_ considering it. She shouldn’t be. Dammit. She unzips her jacket and shrugs out of it, because no matter _what_ she wants to do to him, two people in a closet generate a lot of body heat.  
  
“You still feeling that stuff?” John asks.  
  
If only she could blame that instead of all their recent adolescent behavior. What were they _thinking,_ flirting and sneaking away to far-flung parts of the city to make out like they don’t have the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders? “No. I’m pretty sure that wore off a while ago.”  
  
“Oh.” He sounds disappointed—maybe he’s making the same rationalizations she is. He shifts next to her. “I don’t know about you, but—”  
  
“Yeah,” she says, not at all sure what she’s agreeing to.  
  
“We _might_ still be drugged,” he says. “It’s alien stuff.”  
  
Worry temporarily interrupts the sexy thoughts she’s _not having_. “Are you okay? Do you feel allergic?”  
  
She finally has an excuse to touch him that isn’t _about that_ (although she would never have crossed into his personal space like that uninvited if they _weren’t_ occasionally making out these days), and she strokes his forehead for a fever. He makes a sound that shoots right through her and takes a breath. He’s sweating, but then, so is she, especially when he pulls her hand away from his forehead and kisses the center of her palm. “I don’t think it’s that, Elizabeth.”  
  
She’s pretty sure she could have held out if he didn’t say her name. “How long until rescue?” she asks, already sliding one leg across his lap.  
  
“Two hours,” he says, leaning toward her throat. His hands brush up and down her sides.  
  
“Patrols?”  
  
“Far away.” She can feel him swallow. “Really far. _Elizabeth_.”  
  
They’re insane, she thinks, and then she’s kissing him and insanity is so very worth it, because of his_ mouth_. With all her languages, she’s at a loss to explain it, but they kiss like they argue—side by side, wanting the same thing in different styles, with that _trust_ and endless push and pull of gravity between them—and God knows they’ve talked each other into crazier things than this.  
  
She pushes closer, settling herself in his lap, and he makes that groan she was waiting for, head falling back to expose his throat. She smirks, pretty sure he didn’t get this hard just from one kiss. “Been thinking about this?”  
  
His hands settle at her waist, thumbs sneaking under the hem of her shirt, and he shifts his hips to press the bulge of his erection up against her. “You have no idea.”  
  
She wishes sharply to be naked, wishes they had already established the sexual relationship they really can’t afford to have (but who is she kidding, when she pretends that’s not where they’re headed?), wants him sliding into her as she straddles him on an alien world, wants to ride him up and down until she finds the rhythm that will take him apart.  
  
Thinking about _that_, by comparison it doesn’t feel damning at all when his hands slip under her shirt. He unhooks her bra without her even realizing it, and then his hands are on her breasts, calluses against soft skin. “You’re sneaky,” she says, breathing the words into his ear before lifting her head to give him access to her neck. Kissing him was definitely a good idea.  
  
He mumbles something that might be _”You’re perfect,”_ and then, out loud, “This okay?” She tests out that rhythm she’s looking for even though their clothes are still on, and his polite question turns into: _”Jesus.”_  
  
Pride blends in with lust as he falls into her pattern, and she knows there’s no going back from this. She was never going to kiss him just once. She smiles when he pushes her shirt up to suck one breast into his mouth, another boundary gloriously crumbled.  
  
And it feels good. He drags his tongue over her nipple slowly, like he wants to feel every millimeter, and it’s her turn to curse, “God, _John_.”  
  
His hips jerk up when she says his name, and heat and power flood her to her toes.  
  
She whispers his name again, and then she thinks of something even better, what got them into this mess in the first place: “This afternoon in the main hall,” she says, low in his ear, “when the Supreme Ruler said he wanted me...”  
  
This time his hands go to her hips, holding her to him as he thrusts up, and she gasps for air at the rough cloth and him so close. Jesus, she wants to be home, wants to be with him in a bed and a locked room with no clothes and no radios and no second thoughts.  
  
She does what she can instead, which is to nip at his ear and continue: “He went for me, and you—”  
  
_“No fucking way,”_ he says, with the same intensity as before, and she feels that same lust, feels protected and wanted and _sure_. He doesn’t say it aloud, but she hears in his erection grinding up against her and his teeth raking over her chest: _mine_, and it’s not a surprise.  
  
It doesn’t scare her, though, and that’s a surprise.  
  
She’s too caught up in him to be aware of anything outside until John tenses in a way that’s not about sex. He stops her movement with one firm hand on her shoulder and a finger pressed to her lips, _shhh_.  
  
Then she hears it: boots.  
  
She doesn’t dare ask him anything out loud—friend? foe? weren’t the patrols heading away from here? —and isn’t going to move as long as he’s holding her still. Her pulse is racing, his breathing sounds loud in the confined space, and it’s all she can do to keep from laughing in embarrassment and horror in case she’s actually about to be discovered necking in a closet by _aliens_.  
  
His breathing slows in time with hers and the footsteps pass them by.  
  
He doesn’t relax his grip on her shoulder for a full minute of silence, and when he does, she lets her forehead fall to his chest. The Ochrajinalia could have heard them. Hell, if this had gone on much longer, they probably could have smelled sex through the door.  
  
“This wasn’t our brightest idea,” he whispers. He runs his hand over her hair and settles it on the back of her neck, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Your fault though.”  
  
She pokes his chest and silently orders her body to sit down and behave. “I’m sure it was entirely my idea.”  
  
“I didn’t say that.” He arches his back, and she takes it as a sign to crawl off of him, not that she can go far. She fixes her bra and—seriously, when did he unbutton her pants?  
  
She wishes for a glass of water and a rescue party. She used to be more or less sane around him, didn’t she? “We should probably review off-world protocol.”  
  
She doesn’t expect him to reach out and take her hand. Make out with her and unhook various pieces of her clothing on the sly, sure, but this is a new level of tenderness for him. She wants to assure him she doesn’t need it—she knows how he feels about her or they wouldn’t be doing any of this—but then she considers that the gesture might be for him.  
  
His voice is too casual when he asks, “What about in the city?”  
  
Oh, _John_. ”I’m sure we can find an out-of-the-way closet or two.”  
  
He chuckles. “I have some other things in mind.”  
  
She kisses him. Assuming that rescue party gets here on time and Carson clears them (which he might not, since they’re clearly both insane to be starting this _more than once_), they won’t have too long to wait. “I thought you might.”  
  
*end*

**Author's Note:**

> From 2013's off-season "Junetober" where, as always, peanutbutterer gave the best prompts.


End file.
